


Gore and Glory

by S_V, selwyn



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Manipulation, Mindfuck, Other, Psychic Violence, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Relationships, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-19 19:57:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9458186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_V/pseuds/S_V, https://archiveofourown.org/users/selwyn/pseuds/selwyn
Summary: Shiro had been just another one of the slave-fighters trapped in the gladiator rings of the Empire. In one world, he would've gone unnoticed for years until he escaped and found the Black Lion. Here and now, however... the new champion of the rings catches the eye of the Emperor, for better or for worse."My name is Takashi Shirogane. I am an exploration pilot. And I want to live.""So live, then. Only the strong can live."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an RP fanfic, so expect a lot of perspective switching. Selwyn's personal blog is sellingsalt.tumblr.com. Comments are always much loved and provide motivation to write :D

No matter how many times the gore and offal was hosed off the walls after every ten matches, it could not erase the stink of wretched fear and hopelessness. The stench had sunk into the very material that made the gladiator rings, so thoroughly ingrained that nothing short of complete deconstruction could hope to wipe away the memories of each extinguished soul. Roars and cheers echoed as the audience for today’s round swapped money freely, betting on the petty victories and losses of the slave-fighters below them.

With such a lively atmosphere, one could almost forget the dour presence lingering at the very top. Upon his lonely summit, Zarkon observed the ring with passionless eyes. His expression held neither favor nor contempt, and the ignorant observer almost could’ve said he looked  _ bored _ .

He wasn’t bored, in truth, but he wasn’t excited either. The matches passed as they might’ve - without disruption or remarkability, and Zarkon contained only a dim satisfaction at the bloodshed. The strong crushed the weak, the weak crushed the weaker. Such was the way of the world, so little stirred in him but the gratification of someone observing the world spinning as it should with the knowledge that every fulfilled rotation affirmed their beliefs.

Today, a new batch of slaves had come in. None of them were remarkable -the crop from the backwaters rarely were. But, at least they might have the decency to die in an  _ innovative _ fashion.

The little soft-bodied, many-armed ones were given up to be torn apart limb by limb by the Tamerans. The lean spiny ones were gutted by Cassians. The thick-skinned, squat ones were merely crushed underfoot by the hulking Tarsi, until their shrill dying squeals rang around the gladiator ring.

Then came the little bipeds. Similar in look to an Altean, actually, but primitive in shape and development. Perhaps, when it screamed, Zarkon could close his eyes and imagine he was back on Altea.

The corner of his mouth twitched a fraction, amused by the idea.

 

They were sent here to die. Shiro hadn’t understood the odd hissing language of the aliens, hadn’t known if they had been given instructions, or just mocked for their capture. It wasn’t like the guards were making an  _ effort _ to explain the situation, but after just a few short minutes, they didn’t really  _ have _ to. It was simple: a prisoner would be given some excuse for a weapon, then get herded through a door. After a moment or two, there would be screams - first of terror, then of pain, then finally the cries faded into a silence that grew heavier with each repetition.

_Like the Colosseum_ _in Rome_. His history lessons were long behind him, but Shiro was fairly certain every human knew about the gladiator matches that had once taken place there. This seemed to be a situation along those lines; only, judging from the sounds, they weren’t fighting _lions_ , but monsters.

And the monsters were meant to win. They were just here to get killed for entertainment. Something about that, the utter  _ unfairness _ in the situation, settled hot and heavy in the back of Shiro’s throat, and when he was motioned forwards, he walked on his own accord. Some prisoners had been  _ forced _ out, had thrown away the weapon they’d been given to instead grasp at the ground and try to resist. In the end, it had been useless - Shiro didn’t even entertain the idea, instead accepting the short blade he was given. The guard growled  _ something _ at him, but he couldn’t even decipher the tone, couldn’t tell if it was an instruction or a mockery, and he didn’t bother turning his head to look at the alien.

He didn’t  _ care _ . It wasn’t important. Neither was the garbled shouting from the crowd, the slippery substance on the ground which he could only assume to be some sort of blood, the oppressive atmosphere in the ring he found himself in. What was important was the weight of the weapon in his hand, his own breathing, and the monster meant to kill him.

At first, it looked like a centipede to him. Shiro was past the point where he was amazed by the aliens he saw - now, he forced himself to focus, to analyze the creature. He shouldn’t think of it as a living being, and he was ashamed that, in some way, its strange appearance helped him there. It was just a monster. Just something he had to survive meeting. He counted several strong limbs, what looked like odd hands with way too many fingers, and then there was a rattling sound, and he was diving for cover on instinct. A chain shot past him, a heavy weight at the end with some oddly shining blades digging into the ground where he had just stood.

He was sent here to die. He refused to do so. Instead, he kept on the move, analyzing the movements of the creature. His own small blade was a joke compared to the long range weapon he was up against, but at least the chain made it somewhat easy for him to track the attacks. Maybe, if he could just time it  _ right _ …

The next time the bladed weight dug itself into the ground, Shiro sprang into action and dug the knife he had been given deep into one of the links of the chain to secure it to the ground. He didn’t pause,  _ couldn’t _ do so, and grasped the chain even as he ran at the alien. 

_ No _ . Not alien.  _ Monster _ . Not something he should feel bad about killing. It was slower than him, or maybe it just hadn’t anticipated his actions, hadn’t expected him to get  _ close _ and leave his own weapon behind. Shiro didn’t know, and he couldn’t afford to care; it allowed him the opening he needed to loop the chain around the creature’s neck, jump to its back, and  _ tighten. _

The thing thrashed, trying to grab him, but the many fingers had no claws, nothing to sink in and hang on with. Shiro grit his teeth, ignored the hits the creature  _ was _ landing on him, and used his full strength to pull at the chain. Something gave a sickening crackle, then a crunch. More drops fell on the already soaked ground. And the monster tilted forwards, toppling to the ground and sending Shiro rolling off of its back to slowly straighten on shaking legs.

 

Zarkon knew of law. He knew of the laws of galra and others alike, of the strictures that bound their society into something higher than base primalism. But the True Law, the one law above all, was the law of  _ survival _ . The weak died to the strong. Strength, be it in numbers or arms, defined one’s place in the system.

And every so often,  _ someone _ dared to turn the system around.

The biped that’d walked into the central ring hadn’t been of much significance. It looked healthy, if small, and hadn’t been whimpering like the others before it. That alone had shifted the outcome in its favor.

What interested Zarkon the most, however, was the unusual  _ bloodthirst _ this creature expressed. This was not the desperate scrabbling for survival of someone driven mad by fear. Nor was it cringing in the face of its victory, or blubbering in shock.

By Zarkon’s last check of the odds, this thing had survived a gamble of a thousand to one. Not blindingly impossible, no, but...  _ unlikely _ . It should not have lived but Zarkon had always had a soft spot for those who proved worthy of survival.

The biped stared up - at him, Zarkon fancied briefly - as its chest rose and fell rapidly. And then he was raising his hand, palm facing up to say  _ you can live for now _ .

It had won.

So it would  _ live _ .

With a snap, the ring custodian stepped out with his whip, growling at the alien to step out already. It would proceed to the next round with the rest of the unlikely victors.

 

So  _ that _ was who was in control of this. Shiro had been shutting out the spectators as he entered the ring, only looking up now, eyes sliding over the alien crowd. Looking at them made the same heat burn in his chest, and he instead tore his gaze to whom he had to assume was some sort of leader. It -  _ he? _ \- was making a motion, what Shiro could only guess meant he was the victor, and he narrowed his eyes, trying his best to get his breathing back under control.

“I don’t fight for you.” He wished he could come up with something  _ better _ to say, something more eloquent. That he could put into words how wrong this was, how utterly sick and  _ disgusting _ , but he couldn’t. He could only state his defiance in the most simple way, by straightening his back and controlling his voice, keeping it from breaking. No, he didn’t fight for this alien, not for its entertainment, or because it pitted him against monsters that were meant to kill him. He fought to  _ survive _ . And if he ever got out of here… He had his friends to find, Matt and his father.

Shiro kept his gaze locked on the leader until one of the guards stepped forwards, hissing something at him. Shiro didn’t understand the words, but he  _ did _ get the message under the growl and the threatening whip; he was supposed to move. What about his weapon? Would he be given a new, or would it be a mistake not to bring it with him? He doubted they wanted their prisoners  _ armed _ , but on the other hand, it was a chance he didn’t feel like taking. And they would probably be very quick to let him know if he did something wrong.

Stooping, he yanked the blade from the ground, placing it in his belt before following the guard. They would likely hiss at him and demand that he dropped it, but  _ just in case _ … If there was even the smallest opportunity, Shiro wasn’t going to let it pass him by. He couldn’t afford that. For now, he just had to keep his back straight and his step secure until he was alone - then, Shiro had a feeling he was going to be sick. But he’d be damned if he let any of these aliens see him throw up.

 

The biped was led away, to be fed and then kept out of the way until its time to fight arose once more. The ring custodian didn’t take the sword it had stubbornly clung to, but there was no doubt that he was merely waiting until they were out of sight before confiscating it. There was still more left to watch. Perhaps they might not be as pleasing to spectate as the alien before them, but death remained amusing on its own.

Zarkon settled back. The alien could die in tomorrow’s round. Today might have been a fluke, a minor miracle that would extend the thing’s life by a few spare moments. But, as he eyed the corpse that was being cleaned off the ring, he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it.


	2. Chapter 2

Days passed. The fleet was moving forward at a steady pace, encroaching galactic territory parsec by parsec and eating up the planets in between. Haggar reported success with her quintessence harvester prototypes, but it was a long while until it was fully operational. Until then, besides the minor administration that being emperor required (which was little, because Zarkon had meager patience for  _ bureaucratic  _ work), the greatest thing to occupy his time between intermittent battles was watching the gladiator matches. There was only so much literature one could consume before that could grow boring but violence…  _ violence… _

There was very little about strength - and the violence that accompanied it - that did not entrance him. No battle was the same. No one combatant was the same. Even the lowest of the low had some form of bite to them, the insatiable spirit of survival that demanded sacrifice for the sake of perseverance, and so Zarkon found himself returning to his seat above the rings time and time again. The weak ones were culled like so much grain before the harvester’s scythe, staining the halls with their contemptible fear, but the undercurrent of savage victory remained constant.

Today would be round two for the survivors of round one. It was the true test - meant to see if their survival of round one hadn’t actually been chance. If they lived, then they would enter the gladiator hierarchy as actual fighters.

One by one, the slaves were marched out. More died than before, painting the walls with slick gore. This time, no effort was expended cleaning the ring. The corpses were piled up in the corners as the matches ground the survivors into pulp one by one, limp like so much worthless meat. The smell of it - alien blood and sweat - was high in the air, driving the bloodthirsty audience into further heights of agitation. None of the galrans actually wanted the slaves to  _ survive _ . So they booed when the slaves struck true and howled abuse in hopes of tripping them up and whipped themselves up into a positively  _ incandescent  _ frenzy when a slave survived to be christened a gladiator.

The blooded who lived to step out of the ring were few in number, but spattered with the liquid proof of their worthiness, announcing to all who cared to look that they deserved to live by the virtue of their strength.

Soon enough, it was the alien Altean-lookalike’s turn.

 

The spectators were louder today.  _ Everything _ seemed louder. The aliens waiting with him were the only ones who had grown more quiet, and in some way, the silence which had settled over them was even more deafening than even the roars from the excited crowd. Shiro did his best to ignore it all, shut it from his mind and instead  _ focus _ . He doubted things would get  _ easier _ from his first battle, on the contrary. He couldn’t afford to let himself be distracted, no matter how utterly  _ repulsive _ he found this entire scenario. He  _ needed _ to focus.

As soon as he stepped into the ring, he understood why the audience were in such turmoil. It didn’t even  _ look _ like a ring anymore, looked nothing like the pit where he had faced off against the alien - the  _ monster _ \- last time. Blood was  _ everywhere _ , of various colors and viscosity, the scent of it heavy and sweet in the air. Limbs and organs which he couldn’t name were scattered over the ground, the larger corpses carelessly kicked off to the side while the smaller pieces of tissue had just been left wherever they’d been torn off.

_ Don’t get sick _ . Do  _ not _ get sick. No doubt that would be seen as a weakness, and he’d get killed. He wasn’t going to give anyone that satisfaction; not the spectators, and  _ certainly _ not their leader. Involuntarily, Shiro raised his head, searching for the alien and narrowing his eyes at him once he’d located him.  _ Of course _ he’d be there, watching this farce. It wasn’t proper fights, not really, it was  _ murder _ . It was  _ wrong _ . And it was considered entertainment.

Shiro embraced the burn of fury he felt; it was better than despair, preferable to being sick. He wasn’t going to die. He didn’t give a shit about their entertainment. And he wasn’t about to listen to their ugly growling language and let it distract him. Breathing deeply, he shut out the sounds from the crowd, the knowledge of their presence, instead falling into the rhythm of the fight once it started. Dimly, he knew they were still shouting at him, but he didn’t acknowledge it, only letting it add to the defiance which he felt fueled him. Focus on the opponent. Shut out the surroundings unless they could be used to his advantage.  _ Focus _ .

It wasn’t a pretty victory. Shiro had no claws or scales to act like armor, he had no tail or extra limbs, no sharp teeth or any other physical attribute which could give him an upper hand. He only had the weapon he’d been given, himself, and his wit. He had won, but he was feeling battered, his own red blood mixing with the green from his opponent, covering him and making him feel  _ filthy _ . Yet still, he forced himself to stand as straight as he could, gasping for breath and glaring up at the leader.

 

This was far removed from the effortless grace of combat that galra soldiers strived for. The alien’s battle had been long and messy, pulling from not just each other’s weaknesses but strengths as well. Attrition moreso than skill. And the end result was equally messy - a lone creature standing in the filth of its victory, breathing hard.

It might have been messy, yes, but it had been honest. A good win.

Zarkon tilted his head to the side just enough to side-eye the alien before he held his hand up.

_ Live another day, then. _

This slave would be branded, and chipped. It wasn’t just fodder for the older gladiators to sharpen their teeth on anymore. It would be given its  _ own _ fangs, and made to sharpen them for Zarkon’s amusement.

So shall it be.

The irate ring custodian stepped out again, brandishing his whip to chase out the dazed victor.

Zarkon’s gaze slid over the alien’s face, as sheeted as it was with blood, and then drifted away uncaringly. There were many more rounds yet, and many matches to win. The current champion of the rings was always looking to cut down competition before they could encounter her in the ring proper. Even if this slave survived now, it was no promise of survival tomorrow, or the day after that.


	3. Chapter 3

When in space, it was impossible to count the days. There was no sun, no way of keeping track of the time, only countless stars in the vast darkness they travelled through. Not that Shiro saw even those; windows were a luxury he wasn’t even allowed  _ near _ . Instead, he had taken to simply counting the sleep cycles, using those to count how long he’d been a slave.

Of course, they didn’t call him a  _ slave _ anymore. Now, he was a  _ gladiator _ . To him, it was the same, but he had picked up enough of their language to at least get an idea of his situation. He knew of their ever expanding empire, their search for conquest, and of course, their emperor.  _ Zarkon _ , who was so fond of watching gladiatorial matches.

Shiro had learned to do better than just survive. Just scraping by wasn’t enough here, and so Shiro had observed everything he could, had forced himself to learn and to improve. He had pushed himself to become a better fighter, had taken all his anger, his defiance, his  _ hate _ , and had used it to drive himself forwards. He detested that he had actually become a better fighter -  _ much _ better - because of this, not wanting to admit to himself that he was  _ changing _ . Yet it was undeniable, and it would keep him awake, curled up on his side and wondering what piece of himself he would lose the next day.

In those dark hours, he would repeat the same mantra to himself, over and over, out of fear that he was becoming one of the monsters he had faced that very first day in the ring.  _ My name is Takashi Shirogane. My friends call me Shiro. I was an exploration pilot. My name is Takashi Shirogane…  _ He clung to those small facts, used them as his anchor when all else seemed to threaten to sweep him away. He wasn’t going to let them break him, he wasn’t going to become just a killer. He was Takashi Shirogane, and he was going to get out of here and free his friends.

“Come.” It was one of the words Shiro had learned to recognize and obey. Not doing so led to no good - Shiro had  _ very _ quickly learned that. He’d also learned that being summoned in this way meant another match. He never walked into the ring without fear; both because he knew each fight could be his last, but lately also because the gladiator he had become  _ scared _ him. Wiping all emotion from his face, he repeated his own words to himself -  _ my friends call me Shiro _ \- then followed the custodian without a sound.

  
  


The batch of pathetic slaves that’d been yanked up from the backwaters were now gone and replaced by hard-faced gladiators. This pleased Zarkon, so he kept his eye on the five gladiators that walked out of the death of three hundred like them. They were unique, not quite honed to sharpness, and their battles reflected that quality.

It was, in a way, almost more pleasing the watch than the deadly dances the best gladiators put out.

As it was, the five survivors were beginning to catch the eye of the champions. Not quite, but enough that Zarkon could see the betting sheets fly as theories ran abound. The current champion, Mirri Dag Daal, didn’t seem to be worried about them but her lesser peers took note of possible rivals.

More than took note, really. One of the new gladiators died, drowned in the showers. A low death. A  _ weak  _ death. It would be a warning to his living compatriots that they were not safe even outside the ring.

It was one of Zarkon’s secret pleasures to keep up to date with the gladiator talk. It made the matches themselves more interesting when he knew the stories behind each fighter and saw the power plays enacted through every group. It was akin to a more cutthroat version of his own fleet.

The conquest was going as planned. Whole solar systems folded before them like wet paper, unable to offer anything more than the most cursory resistance now that the resident galactic superpower, Altea, had been excised from the scene. The Galra Empire steadily multiplied and his soldiers grew in number, in power. Few without could resist them, so Zarkon’s piercing gaze was focused within. He watched his admirals and commanders dance around each other, watched the druids haggle with the footmen, and flicked aside the pieces of the puzzles his pawns built when they stepped out of line. Through ten thousand years of conquest and warmongering, Zarkon remained undisputable.

Yet his elevation to god-emperor did little to strip away his other instincts. Even gods needed entertainment, and that’s where the gladiators came in.

The champion would be making her move on the new blood sooner or later. It was up to them to see if they were capable of withstanding her attention.

 

The new gladiators were beginning to disappear. Of course, Shiro wasn’t  _ told _ anything, but you couldn’t help but notice when the faces around you suddenly stopped showing up in the showers and the mess hall. He was fairly certain they didn’t  _ all _ die in the ring, too. It seemed he and the others who had survived the grisly selection to become gladiators were no longer only hunted when they were in the pits. They were being targeted, picked off as easy victims before they rose to become a threat.

It was brutal and close to animalistic, making it clear that this was every man (or woman, or  _ alien _ ) for himself. There was absolutely no kinship between the gladiators, only sharp glances always watching for a weak moment and an opportunity to strike.

Shiro isolated himself the best he could, quickly developing a habit of keeping his face expressionless and his eyes slightly lowered. He wasn’t about to make eye contact with anyone who might take it as a challenge - one thing was being forced to fight in the ring, he wasn’t going to seek out  _ more _ violence. He just kept his head down, his back covered, and his mantra clear in his head. He wouldn’t lose himself, he’d survive this because he  _ had _ to.

As always, he sat by himself in the mess hall. He was still bad at handling what passed for cutlery here - to Shiro, it looked like some odd flat chopstick with one end splitting up into several sharp spikes. Honestly, he’d given up trying to understand it, more interested in eating as quickly as he could so he could return to his cell. In his cell, he was alone, and that meant no one could try to kill him. Once alone, he could close his eyes and afford to relax a little, could try to focus on something other than killing, could just  _ breathe… _

Shiro didn’t notice that the chatter and noise of the mess hall had diminished until it was too late. Once he became aware, he didn’t even have time to think, only feeling a brief sense of dread wash through him and making him straighten his back. Then something hit the back of his head with enough force to knock his entire body forwards, the edge of the table catching just under his ribs and forcing all air from his lungs.

 

Seeing the tray hit the new meat was satisfying - as was the pained noise it made when the metal struck its head. Mirri tilted her head lazily as she swung one leg after another, stretching as she went. Every inch of her spoke of languid confidence in how this would turn out. After all, there’d been hundreds before this one. Those who were good enough to survive the rings, but not the gladiators.

Mirri and her lot had bet on who would get to get who. Being the most senior of her group, Mirri had the privilege of picking her target. The rest had picked straws for the the new meat.

She’d picked this one because it reminded her of Altea. It was no Altean, not with those eyes and ears, but it was close enough that putting her fist through its face would be just as satisfying. It was because of them that she was here in the first place, after all. Now, there were no Alteans to kill - Emperor Zarkon had seen to  _ that _ \- but Mirri would take what she could get.

“We had five new meats,” she said, flicking a braid over her shoulder. “Zin killed one in the cleaners. Two got ill. And the fourth got  _ lost _ .”

An unpleasant, humorless laugh rippled through the audience at her words. Mirri Maz Daal smiled unpleasantly back, before turning her attention to the alien hunched over its table. It would die soon, just like the rest. It was the way of their world, after all. If you could not survive inside and outside the ring, you could not survive at all.

Her leg shot out and kicked the bench it sat on, upending it to spill the alien on the floor. Mirri stepped around it, watching the creature for a reaction.

“It’s too bad you don’t understand Galran,” she told it, “it takes all the fun out of banter. But it’s a waste, I suppose… you’ll be dead soon enough.”

Her lip curled back as she prepared to kick the alien, intent on ending its miserable life without ever giving it a chance to fight back.

 

He should have expected this. He  _ had _ \- part of him anyways - but he hadn’t thought it’d happen this  _ fast _ . Though, he supposed that for someone who didn’t know if tomorrow was going to be their last day alive, it made sense not to waste any time. His attacker was speaking, and although he didn’t understand most of her words, Shiro knew who she was. Not by name, but by title.  _ The Champion _ . The leading fighter in the ring. The best of the gladiators. And apparently someone intent on killing him.

Like hell he was going down without a fight. Rolling to the side, Shiro narrowly avoided the kick aimed for his throat, getting to his feet and backing a few steps away. He couldn’t get much further; at some point while he had been on the ground, the other gladiators had formed a circle, leaving him and the Champion in the center of it.  _ Right _ . That meant no easy escape. Shiro had no doubt that if he tried pushing his way through the throng of people, he’d be grabbed and either shoved back or just killed where he stood.

That left him with only one option, and that was to fight. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Shiro narrowed his eyes, seizing up the Champion. It -  _ she _ , that was definitely a female -  _ she _ was taller than him, and more muscular, too. Not to mention that the Galra had claws and their fangs; the gladiators weren’t allowed weapons outside of the ring, but she was better equipped to handle a fistfight and make it hurt than he was. And that wasn’t even considering the fact that she was the  _ Champion _ , while he was still - what had she called him? Fresh meal? Something like that. He hadn’t quite understood, but he had understood the meaning: he was  _ new _ .

Hunching a little, Shiro took a defensive stance, very slowly stepping to the right to get clear of the bench he’d previously been sitting on. He’d never witnessed one of her fights, had no idea what to expect from a Galra other than what he could deduce just from her looks and her way of moving. Keeping himself back would be foolish and likely get him killed, but he still had to be careful, to test the waters so he could get a better idea of what he was up against.  _ Well _ . Offense was the best defense, and all that. Stepping closer, Shiro kept his arms up, ready to block any blows as he curled his hands into tight fists and went for a kidney punch. Not that he knew if she even  _ had _ a kidney, but even if she hadn’t, it’d hopefully be painful.

 

Oh, it had some  _ fight _ in it. How amusing.

Mirri barked a harsh laugh as she swatted the punch aimed at her midsection and gave it back a punch for its troubles. This one moved carefully - it had to be trained. But it had no friends here, no onewho would aid it against her, and the cautiousness in its attack said everything she needed to know.

It was alone. It was scared. It was  _ dead _ , and all Mirri had to do was inform it.

Stepping to the side, she swiped at its chest for first blood. Her audience was watching, after all, and the electric current in the air demanded blood.

 

So she  _ did _ use her claws. She was also  _ very _ strong, having had no trouble at all simply batting his hand aside like he’d just been a child trying to swat her. Shiro wouldn’t let that discourage him; didn’t have time for it, either. Twisting and raising an arm to block her strike and protect his chest, Shiro leaned back, bowing his spine as much as he could to avoid the scratches becoming deep wounds.

He refused to acknowledge the sting from the cuts, forced himself not to think about the absurdity of the situation. Instead, he focused on  _ survival _ , on finding a way to walk away from this alive. He was smaller than her, something he now exploited without hesitation. To strike at him, she’d had to swipe  _ down _ , and he moved swiftly, letting the force she’d put behind her blow aid him as he pressed a forearm against hers and  _ pushed _ . Probably it wouldn’t be enough to make her stumble, but it’d let him slip to the side and create an opening.

Putting more of his weight into the punch, Shiro went for her side, unprotected as it was with her arm having been awkwardly pushed to the side. If his lesser stature was the only advantage he had, then he was going to push it as far as he possibly could.

 

Her opinion of it inched up a few notches. The alien wasn’t stupid, that was known.

But it was still  _ weak _ .

Mirri didn’t resist the momentum of its punch. She slid back with the force, melting so that it would have to commit and she would be ready. As it drove into her flank, she jabbed her elbow at it, aiming for his head - if not that, its shoulder would suffice.

Around them, the audience watched with a particular solemnity. There wasn’t the raucous cheering like one would expect from the rings. Part of it was prudence - loud noises would draw the custodians, who would stop the fight. The other half was that a fight could always turn ugly, and cheering would distract one from the right time to run if the combatants turned on their audience instead.

Mirri bared her teeth at it, snarling. Her reach was greater than that of its. Every blow it struck was one step closer into  _ her _ range. Her knee snapped up to catch its stomach and wind him.

 

He had no time to even  _ prepare _ for the blow to his stomach. Suddenly, his legs were no longer carrying him, pain blooming from his abdomen to his entire body, and Shiro sagged. The floor came up to meet him, and he caught himself against it with his elbows, wheezing. One kick was enough to bring him down completely, another had him spitting blood, the red of it standing out vividly to his otherwise blurry gaze.

Curling up to protect himself wasn’t an option. Coughing and spitting more red, Shiro scrambled for  _ something _ to defend himself with, his bleeding arm reaching blindly. Fingers brushed something cold and metal, and he had grasped the object before his brain even caught up -  _ cutlery _ , _ it had to be one of those odd pieces of cutlery _ \- and lashed out with it.

Shiro couldn’t reach any vital parts of her, and it was pure instinct that had him aiming the spiked end at the back of the Champion’s knee. He put every ounce of strength he could muster behind the jab, feeling the impact all the way to his shoulder. Gritting his bloodied teeth, he unconsciously pulled his lips back in a primitive snarl,  _ twisting _ his improvised weapon in the wound with the sole purpose of  _ hurting her _ .

 

To her credit, Mirri did not scream. She did, however, let out a strangled sound that said more about her pain than any screech could’ve. Immediately, she followed the alien to crumple on the ground with a pained grunt.

The damn metal remained lodged in the fleshy back of her knee. It made standing impossible and Mirri had no time to pull it out before the alien was upon her once again. With a sharp snarl, she raked her claws down its face, aiming for the eyes. She fell short thanks to the awkward horizontal angle and instead caught the middle of its face. The deepest cut was across the bridge of its nose, with her claw digging in deep into the cartilage and skin, but the others were thin hairline slivers of injuries.

 

Shiro hissed as her claws raked across his face, turning his head and closing his eyes in an attempt to protect them. His first strike was made blinded, though after that he dared to look - not because he really  _ wanted _ to, but because fighting the Champion with his eyes closed was just asking to be killed.

Struggling to move on top of her, Shiro aimed his blows for her face, her throat, anywhere he knew would hurt. Fighting  _ fair _ didn’t matter, neither did chivalry; this was base instincts and survival, it was  _ anger _ and hate, and Shiro didn’t think twice about closing his hands around her neck and  _ squeezing _ . He was forced to let go as soon as she moved, having to grasp for purchase, blood making the floor slippery as they rolled.

This was too close, much too close, and he couldn’t allow her to get the upper hand. If he got pinned under her, he died. Shiro had no claws like she did, blunt nails uselessly digging into her skin, and even her  _ skin _ was wrong, purple and tough and covered in fur, just like her ears.

Shiro didn’t think. He’d stopped that by now, relying on instinct, on  _ anger _ to fuel him when he needed to make split-second decisions. Lashing out ungracefully, like a snake striking blindly, his teeth closed around one ear, digging in as he clenched his jaw. Then he tore his head back viciously.

 

_ Now _ she let out a blood-curdling shriek, guttural with pain and outrage. Mirri bucked wildly under the alien - its weight wasn’t enough to pin her truly but the ferocious pain of having her  _ ear ripped off _ was enough to blind her to reason.

They rolled wildly on the floor, uncaring of the filth of a thousand boots, over the stains of centuries of spilled food and drink as they spat and snapped at each other like feral dogs. The alien’s blunt nails managed to dig into her skin, leaving long and bloody furrows as they scraped down and Mirri spat into its face. And again the grappled on the floor, knocking into the legs of tables as they alternated between wrestling for the upper hand and clawing at each other.

Her ear was well ravaged when she finally managed to kick him off. It hung by a single bloody strip of flesh that flared with agony each time she moved her head and the ravaged flesh dangled with her. Blood, thick and dark, oozed between the matted clumps of her fur from both where it’d torn the ear and where its teeth had sunk in. Her neck bled as well, from thin crescent welts gained from its failed attempt to choke her.

Of course, the alien wasn’t without its own injuries. She’d used her claws to deadly effect on its weak flesh and the results showed in the blood that flowed from various injuries. 

Mirro limped a distance away from it, eyes never leaving its face, and continued to stare even as she gripped the metal stuck in her leg.

With a grimace and wet sucking noise, she pulled the offending cutlery out and flung it to the floor. Dark red blood splattered her pant leg, but Mirri straightened. The pain of the wound was bad, but lesser than what it had been with the thing inside. She could stand now, at least, albeit unevenly.

With a hiss, she bared her teeth. “Not bad,” she said, and spat on the floor. The spit was pink - a bad sign. “You will still die, though.”

 

When the Champion retreated, Shiro did the same, though he didn’t dare take his eyes off of her for even a moment. Not that he could see all too well anyways; his own blood and her spit was in his eyes, making everything in his field of vision swim, nothing but blurry shapes. He could  _ hear _ that she pulled the thing from her leg, could hear it clattering to the floor, and although the sound should have horrified him, it only brought grim satisfaction. He’d  _ hurt _ her.

Shuffling a little further back, he raised his arm to rub his face, trying to clear some of the blood from his vision. There was one burning line of pain across his nose, but the scratches and wounds had missed his eyes by some small miracle. However, their fight had made plenty of blood enter his eyes, and now he was trying his best to blink it out, to be able to  _ see _ again. He couldn’t afford to lose one of his senses, not in this fight.

Following her example, he spat on the floor, lips pulling back in disgust over the taste in his mouth and the sensation of  _ things _ between his teeth. He didn’t want to think about what that was, if it was fur or tissue. If he gave himself permission to think, he’d get sick, and then he’d be dead. And a small part of him was pleased by the damage he had done, turning his sneer into an ugly grin, feral and cold.

 

She would wipe that grin off its face. Mirri circled a little more, watching it, before darting in for another go. This time, she didn’t mess around with small attacks. She tackled it by the midsection so she could end this fight now before her injuries grew worse.

The thin material of its clothes did little to protect it. Her claws ripped through them like they were tissue paper and sunk into its soft skin easily.

“Die,” she growled gutturally. Her fist sunk into its belly, winding it, and once Mirri was sure it was down for the count, she rolled off.

It’d torn off her ear. Her intention had been to kill it quickly, but now she had a mind for revenge before wiping its pathetic life out.

Her eyes trailed over the table. An idea came to her.

She kicked its arms so that it lay spread eagle on the floor. Then she grabbed one of the long mess hall tables and dragged it closer. The metal legs screeched as it went, but bowed to her superior strength. Trays slid off the tables one by one with loud clatters, spilling their contents, but no one protested as they were too fixated by the fight before them.

Mirri balanced the metal leg of the table over the junction of the alien’s elbow. The leg started off thick before narrowing to a point that was topped by a circular little stand with a flat bottom. This bottom dropped onto the alien’s forearm.

_ Good _ . Her set-up complete, Mirri lifted the corner of the table a fraction, then brought it down with as much force as she could muster.

_ Crick _ . The skin broke around the metal. And, as Mirri continued her cold revenge, the skin gave way to wet, red meat that was crushed to the bone, and beyond.

It would die like this, with each of his limbs crushed, she decided then. Then she’d gut it and let it watch intestines spill onto the floor before tearing out its eyes. She would rip each ear off in repayment for her own and make it eat them. Its death would be slow, and messy, and painful, and its screams would remind everyone here that even when wounded, Mirri Mag Daal was not to be trifled with.

 

Dazed and in pain, Shiro at first didn’t even hear the screech of metal over the rattling sound of his own breath. Part of him knew he should get up, that he  _ had _ to, but he couldn’t focus past the pain to actually move. The sound getting closer was surreal, it didn’t belong in this scenario, and Shiro had one blessed moment where he simply blinked in confusion, brows drawing down in a small frown.

Then agony shot up his arm, and he  _ screamed _ . So far, he had prided himself on never crying out while in the ring, not wanting to let anyone know how much his situation was getting to him. He had awoken himself from nightmares often enough, but those had been strangled yelps, breathless and lost in the darkness. Now, he screamed, thrashing without thought as the pain tore through him like fire, unlike anything he’d ever felt. Had he thought his previous wounds hurt? That had been  _ nothing _ compared to this agony. Under the sound of his cries, he heard the sickening wet squelches and crisp snaps as his arm was crushed, the bone splintering and the flesh tearing.

It almost came as a relief when black began to dance in front of his eyes, his vision narrowing. Fainting would put him out of this misery, it’d make the pain stop. It would be so easy to just allow himself to slip away, to put an end to the torture.

_No_. No, he couldn’t die. Not yet. He _couldn’t_. If he died now, he might as well have died the first day, have given up back then. He hadn’t achieved anything yet, he _couldn’t_ _die_. With an inarticulate yell, Shiro twisted his body, fingers finding the wound he’d made at the back of her knee and jabbing into it. Then he brutally hooked them and _twisted_ , tearing down and away. The Champion had been using her good leg to bear down on the table crushing his arm, letting her wounded one support all her weight, and the sound of pain she made when she stumbled and fell was the sweetest sound he’d heard in a long time.

As soon as her foot was no longer forcing the table down, Shiro yanked his arm free, not caring the least bit that it might have been wiser to carefully remove the weight of it. He didn’t have  _ time _ for that. Shiro didn’t look at what had once been his arm; he could feel the useless limb dangle at his side, the pain of it once more threatening to knock him out. He grit his teeth, fought back the looming blackness threatening to envelope him. No. Not yet. This wasn’t over yet.

The Champion was on the floor, and Shiro flung himself over her, his good hand slipping through blood until he found an eye and dug his thumb into it. The sound it made was drowned out by her scream, and a malicious part of Shiro had him digging in his finger just a little deeper before pulling it free and climbing onto her back. Grabbing her hair, Shiro snarled, using his full strength as he bashed her face against the floor. Again. And again.  _ And again _ .

 

The mess hall was silent. Mirri had ceased screaming long ago and the only sound was the dull crunch of her skull meeting the tiled floor over and over again, smearing blood and brain matter. Her eyes had gone dull long ago and even the sporadic twitching had ceased.

The champion was dead.

“Champion,” Zin whispered, shuffling uneasily. The word spread until everyone murmured it.

_ Champion, champion, champion. _

They had a new champion.


	4. Chapter 4

“Did you hear, emperor?”

Zarkon tilted his head head a fraction to glance at one of his admirals. “Yes?”

“Mirri Mag Daal is dead. A new champion took her place.”

Ah, Mirri. One of his former generals. He’d cast her out and into the rings when she’d lost a critical battle with the Alteans. She’d been the reigning champion for several years now. “Who is the new champion, then?”

An image shone from the admiral’s - Gorse, his name was - wrist comm. It showed the alien Zarkon had seen pass through the ring a few times. “He’s recent. But bets say he won’t live long. Lost his arm in the fight with Mirri and the ring custodians aren’t happy.”

Hm. No arm. He’d die, then. A cripple had no place being titled champion.

“It’s a shame. He seemed to have potential. A lot of bets were on him. The footage of him killing Mirri is quite popular now.”

Zarkon tapped a finger on the armrest of his throne for a moment, thinking. Then he looked back at Gorse. “Show me.”

“Ah? Ah, yes, emperor. Here.”

The image changed from the alien to a video. Mirri challenged the alien, at first, but the fight quickly went against her favor. It was a brutal beatdown on both sides and the multiple angles of the cameras showed every inch of their violent struggle. Zarkon eyed the alien as it stood after murdering Mirri, hands bloody and eyes wide.

Hm.

“What are the odds of it staying champion?”

“No betting chance, emperor. Nobody is willing to take an impossible gamble on. Now, the odds of him  _ dying _ …”

“Yes?”

“Three to one it’s in the next match. Five to one it’s in the next three matches. This one is apparently known to be bloodthirsty and ruthless, so maybe it might scrape a few victories out.”

A safe gamble. Zarkon’s lip curled. “Dismissed.”

Gorse bowed with a soft affirmative. Then he was gone.

Zarkon leaned back. The alien would die, most likely, because it could not save its arm. It was weakness, yes… but what a shame. Mirri had been a good general, and an even better combatant. Anyone who could’ve killed her would’ve been a fine warrior.

Would. Is. It would die.

But then again, hadn’t it proven strength? A good strong champion didn’t always come so easily, after all, and Zarkon was, despite himself, a little intrigued. The conquest was going slowly on all fronts, as was the search for Voltron, so perhaps it would not be undue for him to pay a closer mind on the affairs of his fleet. It would teach his admirals a healthy lesson about safe gambles, as well.

He leaned back. Zarkon could feel the feeble, small minds of every creature on this ship in the back of his mind and slowly, he sifted through the crowds until he found the mental track of the alien slave-fighter. It was in its cell, curled up with its injured arm at its side.

There would be no saving that arm. It was infected beyond saving.

The fingers of his psychic self slowly reached into the alien’s mind… reaching in, deeper and deeper, until…

_ Hello, champion. _

 

Those words. Shiro immediately shot upright, the movement sending a jolt of fire through his arm and entire body. Biting down the urge to scream, he only grit out a low hiss to indicate the pain, eyes narrowed as the scanned his cell.  _ Empty _ . But he’d heard  _ someone _ . Two words, greeting him, calling him champion. Yet clearly, he was alone.

Hallucinations? Shiro wasn’t stupid, he knew his arm was fucked up. It didn’t even look like a limb anymore, discolored and broken as it bled constant agony through the rest of his body. If it wasn’t already infected, it’d be soon. He  _ might _ be having hallucinations, then. Only, when you hallucinated, weren’t you supposed to hear voices you knew? This one was unfamiliar to him, and he had never been called champion before. He didn’t much care for it.

Still, he’d rather think he was hallucinating than considering if he was beginning to break mentally. Doing so was out of the question. He had come so far, he wanted to live; no, he _was_ _going_ to live. He couldn’t snap, not now. Taking a deep breath, he drew on the pain he felt, the adrenaline rush it caused, using it to sharpen his focus and help him _concentrate_. He _needed_ to concentrate.

“What is this?” Shiro almost felt like cringing as he spoke out loud, breaking the silence of the cell. His voice didn’t sound as strong as he’d have liked, but at least it didn’t shake. Was he talking to himself right now, answering voices that weren’t there? He was fairly certain he hadn’t  _ heard _ the words, not out loud, with his ears. His own voice, seeming so loud in the small cell, only confirmed that. He’d somehow heard the words in some other way, in his head, and he  _ shouldn’t _ have. Sane people didn’t hear voices.

_ Infected arm _ . Hallucinations. That had to be it. Right? For some reason, having made sense of it didn’t bring Shiro any relief, only a beginning anger. Hallucinating was a sign of the end, and he wasn’t ready to reach that end yet.  _ Not yet _ . 

 

The panic that flared to life at his probe was a good sign. So many were deaf to psychic messages… Zarkon might’ve thrown away the alien for it. Like this, the language barrier didn’t separate them.

He waited to see if the alien would break down and start gibbering. It did not - another point in its favor. Had it the gall to be so weak, he would’ve crushed its mind and walked away.

_ What do you think it is? _

Inch by inch, Zarkon crept deeper into its mind. He peeled back layers of memories in search of the alien’s psyche, discarding the emotions that came to batter at his approach with a dismissive wave. He wasn’t too impressed at what he saw - this one was barely past boyhood and similarly inexperienced. It was its -  _ his _ \- first time out of his stay system.

Pathetic.

 

_ Hallucinations _ . Again, the thought was followed by a low pulse of simmering anger; at himself, at the situation, at the fact that his arm was destroyed and that he was likely well on his way to dying. He didn’t  _ want _ to die, not yet. It wasn’t  _ acceptable _ . He’d gotten so  _ far _ .

Then again.  _ Were  _ this really hallucinations? He didn’t know for sure, but he believed he could feel  _ something _ tickling at the back of his mind, like something you were struggling to remember but which kept slipping away. Frowning, he looked around his cell once more - confirming that he was indeed alone - then narrowed his eyes and pursued the feeling. Surely there wasn’t anything he was forgetting, and this felt nothing like the one time he’d had a high fever as a kid and had thought the walls of his room kept expanding around him.

So, not hallucinations? Then what? Why the hell was he hearing a voice address him, call him by a title he didn’t want, asking him questions Shiro wasn’t even sure he understood? And how was he supposed to find the answer when that nagging sensation kept distracting him, making him feel like there was  _ something there _ , something he should know…

The other gladiators talked about a witch. It was one of the first words Shiro had picked up, mostly because everyone had spoken it with such fear that he’d become convinced it was important. The emperor had a witch serving him, which meant that what might’ve seemed impossible on Earth wasn’t necessarily undoable here. A chill passed through him at the realization. He’d thought the faint tickle had been a distraction from the answer, but it might just  _ be _ the answer. Not a thought he had forgotten, but… a presence?

_ Who are you? _ Part of him felt paranoid and honestly rather ridiculous that he was even considering this idea. The other part wasn’t surprised. After everything else he’d witnessed, was it such a big jump to believe that somehow, his capturers had found a way into his head? The notion had his anger flaring again, and Shiro tried  _ pushing _ at the presence, wanting it gone. They’d captured him, they’d forced him to kill, they’d made him a  _ slave _ . Couldn’t he be allowed to at least have his mind to himself?  _ Get out of my  _ **_head._ **

 

The push was weak and fluttering, and didn’t move Zarkon’s presence an inch. In fact, he seemed to grow more steadfast, as if bolted in place. Amusement flooded the connection between them, stark and cold.

_ You, injured and alone, presume to order  _ **_me_ ** _? If I wished, you would be thrown out an airlock at this very moment _ . 

The cameras that peered into every prisoner’s cell came onto Zarkon’s private video feed. He flicked between them until he found the one that observed the alien’s cell. It - _ he _ \- was still on his bed, but looked frightened. Anxious.

_ Are you afraid, little… _ he reached deeper into his mind until he found the noun he was looking for.  _...human? _

A human. From the planet Earth. Star system Sol. So insignificant that it hadn’t shown up as a  _ blip _ on the Empire’s radar. How… funny… that it should be this one emerge from such a planet.

 

_ You’re in  _ **_my_ ** _ head, I think that gives me  _ **_some_ ** _ sort of right to tell you to get lost. _ That flood of amusement definitely wasn’t his own, and it couldn’t possibly be a hallucination. So either Shiro was going insane, or someone was rummaging around in his mind. At this point, he wasn’t sure which one he’d honestly prefer.

It was someone who could have him killed, meaning it was someone  _ powerful _ . Not that Shiro needed reasoning to reach  _ that _ conclusion - he could  _ feel _ it in his mind, in everything from the way the cold amusement flooded his own senses, to the lingering presence that seemed to take root in his mind. He could feel the pure strength, and again he tried pushing against it, testing to see what it  _ was _ . How it worked, and if he could somehow get rid of it.

_ Not in the way you think _ . Yes, Shiro was afraid, but in his situation? It’d be foolish  _ not _ to be. And fear, if used right, could be turned to an advantage. It sharpened the senses and told you where your lines were, made you  _ aware _ of them so you could work with them and push them. And right now, he had  _ someone _ in his head, someone who was clearly stronger than him and who had made it clear he could have Shiro killed. He’d be stupid if he wasn’t wary, but at least he could use the nerves to sharpen his focus.

_Who_ ** _are_** _you?_ Was this the witch? What could the purpose of rooting around in his head possibly _be?_ What was there to gain from this? Sitting just a little straighter, Shiro hissed once more when his arm was jostled, unable to help but look around himself once more. Having a conversation with someone he couldn’t see, in his _head_ , was not something he’d be getting used to anytime soon. _Why are you talking to me, and why like this?_

 

_ You are the new champion of the rings. But you won’t be for long. You are a cripple. _

The thoughts in the human’s head ran around like little mice in a cage, all frantic and hurried. He seemed to jump from one idea to another at random and Zarkon didn’t try to follow the flyaway directions of his mind.

_ You will die soon without treatment. _

These were the cold, harsh facts of reality.  _ Are you ready for that? _

 

_ No. _ The answer was immediate, delivered with absolutely no hesitation.  _ I want to live. I’m not ready to give up the fight yet.  _ He wasn’t going to give up, dying now - after  _ everything _ he’d been through - would be unacceptable. He wasn’t ready to die, to just give up and accept death. He’d fought and clawed his way this far, he was gonna keep going.

_ Why are you telling me this, why now? I know I’m fucked, it’s not like treatment is being offered _ . Yes, he was a cripple, and Shiro  _ hated _ it. He hated the weakness, hated the pain, hated that  _ this _ was apparently how he was going to die. Unless whoever was in his mind was going to propose an alternative, and Shiro wasn’t going to bet on that. Nothing in life was free, and he very much doubted whoever this person was would offer him anything other than the cold facts.

At least there was a small amount of amusement to be found in this. The he, a weak human with no claws or fangs, and who’d be taken out from something as petty as an  _ infection _ , had managed to defeat the current champion. It brought him a bitter sense of accomplishment that he’d at least go out with  _ that _ , upsetting the system even if just a bit.

 

_ So ready to give up?  _ How disappointing. Zarkon regarded the human in his cage with something approaching disgust.  _ This _ was the one who’d taken out Mirri? He was not worth the distinction if something like injury could bring him so low.

_ You want to live? Only the strong can live. Why do you deserve to live when you lay here, weak and pitiful? _


	5. Chapter 5

_ I’m  _ **_not_ ** _ ready to give up. If you know of a way to fight being crippled, then do share, and I will fight. I’m not ready for things to end like this. _ But he wasn’t expecting any generosity, either. Why would anyone help him? Why offer him anything? If there was some way he could fix his own arm, he’d be clawing to do so, struggling with everything he had. Hell, it’d be preferable to amputate it - a clean cut with a laser blade would likely cauterize the wound, hopefully stop the infection from spreading. If given a blade, Shiro would do it; only, the gladiators weren’t allowed weapons out of the ring.

The anger he felt slowly grew, burning brighter as he was mocked. Did this stranger expect him to ask the guards for help? Did he honestly think Shiro would  _ get _ it? He didn’t want to ask for  _ anything _ , that would just be showing more weakness. He  _ did _ want to live, he just didn’t know  _ how _ , and that only made the fury blaze all the harder.

Shiro wanted to be strong. He  _ was _ , had been strong enough to make it this far, to survive the ring, the attempt at his life, even the initial capture itself. His injury was a weakness, one that was weighing him down, and he wanted it  _ gone _ , wanted to remove it so he could become stronger still. He  _ had _ to become stronger,  _ had  _ to survive. Giving up wasn’t a possibility, he wanted to live. 

The same anger that had driven him to continuously beat the Champion’s head against the ground, even after she had stopped moving, now made him detest his own wound. Made him want to cut off his arm, preferably to throw it in the face of whoever was in his mind. To prove him  _ wrong _ , and to hopefully get blood on the stranger’s clothes while doing so.

 

_ Such rage in you. Do you think things unfair? You lost your arm because you were too slow to save yourself. _

The weak often grew angry with the strong. Such was the way of things. By blinding themselves to their own frail character, they could see the fault in their betters and blame them for the injustice of their own birth. If one desired to be uplifted… one must  _ take _ it for themselves. To hope for anything else was simply idiocy.

Zarkon’s voice and presence hovered in the boy’s mind like a miasma. He continued about his day freely but his words mocked the crippled champion.

New champions came by every few years. And Zarkon always gave them at least a glance, to see if they were worthy, before passing them by. A few had been raised up from slavery to serve him… but more failed him by revealing their internal weakness.

This one was… undecided. Oh, he had  _ rage _ in him, that was certain. It was boundless and deep, like the ocean in the grips of a squall, but it was directionless. It was no weapon to be honed. It was fire, liable to bend in whatever direction the winds blew it, and burn until it ate everything and starved.

Cold claws slid down the trembling spectre of the boy’s mind. Zarkon was inside him, outside him, nowhere but everywhere. His will as immutable as stone, and when he spoke, his words ballooned out until they filled every crevice inside the boy’s mind.

_ Not ready… not ready… who is ever ready for anything? Who is ready to die? Not I, nor you, and I imagine Mirri Mag Daal was not either. Why do you deserve to live when she died? Why you, and not her? _

 

_ I beat her, didn’t I? _ That, at least, was simple. Shiro bristled as the presence in his mind as it seemed to grow, permeating everything, washing over him and pulling him under. It was a violation, an abuse that left him absolutely no sanctuary, and Shiro fruitlessly fought against it. This was  _ his _ mind, how could someone invade it so completely? Gritting his teeth, Shiro  _ pushed _ , feeling like he was fighting to swim to the surface of completely black water.

_ I won because I was stronger than her _ . She had tried to kill him, and had failed. Thus, Shiro had won the right to stay alive, while she had failed and died. The logic was cold, whispered from the same dark part of his mind which his rage sprang from, the same part that had made him bite off her ear instead of releasing it from between his teeth as soon as she tried shoving away. With the presence filling up his mind, it was impossible to hide: he had won, he was stronger, and therefore, he deserved to live.

 

_ Then prove it. _ The laser bars to his cell went offline, leaving the entrance wide open for him.  _ If you think you deserve to live, then show me. _

_ Go to the guards. Ask to be treated. _

So he thought he ought to live. A will to live was respectable.

_ But you will have to fight again. You will never know peace. Go be healed for that future… or you can rot away in here and die like trash. _

It was Zarkon’s last ultimatum. The boy could accept it, or he could die. He’d been given the barest sliver of a chance - it was up to him to make use of it.

 

_ … Who are you? _ Who was this person, someone not only powerful enough to be  _ in Shiro’s mind _ , but also seemingly capable of freeing him on a whim? Why was someone so influential even  _ interested _ in what happened to a gladiator? It made little sense to Shiro, yet he didn’t hesitate when standing, immediately taking the option offered to him. Whoever had given him this chance was right: it was either fight or die. And Shiro had no intention of dying.

Moving had a wave of nausea and pain pass through him, but Shiro kept still, patiently waiting it out and breathing through it. Once it had passed, he straightened, refusing to show any weaknesses even as he slowly left his cell. Attempting to flee would be beyond foolish; he wouldn’t get far, and he didn’t  _ like _ the idea. Trying to escape would feel like trying to run away, like giving up. So instead, he steeled himself, then headed down the dark hallway to locate a guard. Surely, they’d know he’d left his cell and would already be on their way to meet him.

_ Guess I’ll just have to fight to change the future, too _ . It might have been unnecessary to add that last, defiant part, but Shiro couldn’t very well be held responsible for what passed through his  _ head _ . A life of being a gladiator, a slave being forced to fight until someone killed him? No. Not acceptable. He had a name, he had a purpose, and he had a will to live.

 

_ Your god.  _

Zarkon did not believe in god. Or, at least, in the god religions touted. If god existed, he was a being of great physical strength. Spiritual power helped no one and nothing, and how much you believed in that deity didn’t matter if you were  _ dead _ . If  _ he _ would pray to anyone, then it would be to the proven power of orbital artillery platforms and dreadnought fleets.

And if all  _ that _ was for  _ him _ to command… then was he not a god? His hands were the scale in which civilizations were judged. His name was the name people appealed to for life. All answered to him, the god-emperor whose name was Zarkon, and when the accumulated weight of their worlds and wars threatened to crush their shoulders, his was the hand they clutched for salvation.

He held this one’s life between his fingers and it wouldn’t require anything more than the barest twitch of muscle to let the tiny, insignificant spark of the champion’s life spill out.

Only the strong can live.

_ Fight to live. Fight for the right of survival. _

The champion’s arm would be removed. Replaced. A galra prosthesis built with cutting edge technology in mind, to be stronger and faster and  _ better _ than any natural limb. It was Zarkon’s mercy to his newest champion, and a challenge at the same time.

_ If you believe you deserve to live - prove it. _


	6. Chapter 6

_ My…? _

No. No way. Impossible. There was simply  _ no way _ . Yet it all made sense, didn’t it? Shiro could  _ feel _ how immensely powerful the alien in his head was, how easily he had batted aside the humans attempts to resist his presence. He’d been able to open the doors to his cell at will, had threatened that he could have Shiro kicked out an airlock. This was someone who was powerful in every way.  _ But… _

The realization brought an inevitable sense of trepidation, a cold feeling too close to dread for comfort settling in Shiro’s chest. He didn’t  _ want _ to be fearful of Zarkon, yet when faced - well, as  _ ‘faced’  _ as he could be when this happened in his  _ mind _ \- with the emperor, it was hard not to feel  _ something _ . Shiro refused to call it fear, or nervousness, or even  _ begin _ acknowledging that it might also be tinted with the slightest hint of awe.

At the same time as the chunk of ice settled in his chest, a burning fury flared up in the back of his throat, the contrast making him feel nauseous. This was  _ Zarkon _ , the emperor who forced slaves to fight and die for his own entertainment, who was bringing the galaxy to its knees before him. Matt would have been killed in the ring if Shiro hadn’t protected the boy, and no one would have cared. Zarkon was  _ horrible _ , what he was doing was  _ wrong _ , he had to be stopped. To be  _ killed _ , if that was what it’d take.

_ I don’t  _ **_have_ ** _ a god.  _ None of these feelings would do him any good. Shiro grit his teeth and forced them down, settling on a cool hatred and strong defiance, letting those become his focus. At some point after Zarkon had revealed his identity, the shock had made Shiro stop dead in his tracks; now, he pushed himself to move once more, to put one leg in front of the other. Prove himself? Oh, he would.  _ Challenge accepted _ .

Under the stubborn determination, however, was a budding curiosity. Shiro didn’t want to admit to its presence, yet it persisted, nagging at the back of his mind. This didn’t make  _ sense _ . Why was  _ Zarkon _ , the emperor of the Galran Empire, in Shiro’s mind? Talking to him, actually giving him a chance to keep on fighting? This was  _ Zarkon _ , and Shiro was just a slave, not even a speck in the galaxy compared to him. He didn’t  _ want _ to ask, but the questions were eating at him, muddling his anger into confusion until finally he gave in to them, settling for a single word and shoving it towards the presence in his mind:  _ why? _

 

_ An ant can claim godlessness, but it remains an ant, as god remains god. _

The boy was muddled up in a quagmire of his own uncontrollable emotions. Zarkon regarded them with the same level of interest a scientist might look at a new, but not entirely unexpected, strain of bacteria in their petri dish. He dismissed it as soon as the psychic flares continued, not invested enough to  _ really _ dig into his mind. 

Zarkon cared little for the turmoil of small minds.

_ Why? _ What a petty question. What a  _ small _ question.  _ Why not? _

When you were as old as he was, as  _ vast  _ as he was, the world stopped being defined by  _ why _ . Reason… motive… it didn’t matter. Zarkon  _ could _ , so he  _ did _ , and that was that.

Two guards who’d been patrolling together bumped into the freed slave in their midst. They moved to attack - then paused when something in the back of their minds itched. One’s nose bled and the other’s ears pointed back.

Zarkon eased his mental pressure. And like a leviathan diving back into deeper waters, his pervasive, inescapable presence vanished, and left only the waves on the surface to mark his departure. Yet he was never far - and the two guards seemed awed by their brief and painful encounter with him.

“You’re the new champion,” one finally said, not even lifting his gun. Zarkon’s brief brush against his mind left him disarmed. “We… were to escort you. To the medibay.”

“Right,” the other said, dabbing at the dark blood under his nose. His fingers shook when he looked at it. “The emperor made it… very clear.”

“Very clear,” the other agreed.

“Come this way.” The two stepped apart, clearly indicating that he was meant to walk between them. They didn’t try to cuff him, or use their guns - why bother? Even when he was gone, Zarkon was  _ never _ far.

 

Zarkon, Shiro decided, was  _ arrogant _ . He was undeniably powerful, but actually considering himself as having a godlike status? It seemed he’d lost  _ touch _ with everything else if he thought others beneath him. The emperor had placed himself upon the great tower he’d created and looked down at everyone else - just like he had in the gladiator ring when he sat in his titanic dais and stared down at the people fighting for their lives. It let him look down at him - at them  _ all _ \- until, it seemed, he lost touch with the world around him.

Personally, Shiro didn’t think it’d be worth it, but he wasn’t about to argue this point with a megalomaniac alien.

Shiro stiffened when he saw the guards and braced himself for a fight. But they lowered their weapons and, to his confused surprise, talked to him  _ nicely _ . No barked orders, no threats, no raised weapons. It didn’t escape his attention that the hand of one guard was actually  _ shaking _ and he wondered what exactly Zarkon had told the guards, and how  _ strict _ he’d been about it.

“Right…” Cautiously, Shiro stepped between them, eyes narrowed in suspicion. This wasn’t like anything else he’d experienced since being captured, and he couldn’t help but feel there was more to it, that he’d inadvertently made a deal with the devil. Or, well. Not completely unawares. Zarkon  _ had _ warned him, Shiro had gone into this knowing the consequences. Yet, seeing that blood flowing from the nose of the guard made it all the more  _ real _ .

And yet, that only gave him more resolve than ever to keep fighting. It showed him that the Galra weren’t untouchable. He’d killed the champion and the guards  _ bled _ . In a way, the world as Zarkon described it made sense and, as he looked at the guard, Shiro realized he saw something -  _ weakness _ . Something to be exploited for his survival. 

The realization shook him, and he quickly looked away, biting down hard on his lower lip.  _ My name is Takashi Shirogane. I was an exploration pilot. I want to live.  _ Now, he added another sentence to the many others, feeling sick as he did so;  _ I will not become a monster. _

He rather quickly added yet another;  _ I won’t faint _ . He was getting dizzier by the second and it felt like his heartbeat was throbbing in the hot, mangled flesh of his crushed arm with every step he took. Shiro refused to actually feel  _ grateful _ for anything he experienced while in captivity, but nonetheless, stepping into the medibay felt like mercy had shined it light on him for the first time in days.

Words were exchanged and orders were barked, most of which he wouldn’t have understood even had he been in top shape, and definitely didn’t get  _ now _ . He caught ‘ _ champion _ ’, ‘ _ arm _ ’, and ‘ _ Emperor Zarkon _ ’. The last one was repeated several times, with varying levels of intensity.

When guided to move, Shiro did so, obeying out of necessity while he glanced at the various pieces of equipment in the medibay. Most of what he saw didn’t look like it had anything to do with making people  _ well _ \- rather, on the contrary. He hoped it was only his untrained eye that made the various tools look like complicated torture devices. 

They laid him down on an operation slab of some sort. It was raised from the floor at an odd angle that forced him to awkwardly recline against it instead of laying down. It was uncomfortable, and Shiro shifted uneasily.

“How will this proceed?” It was the first time he attempted speaking Galran, himself, the odd sounds feeling clunky and strange in his mouth. He had no idea how to say ‘ _ medical procedure _ ’, and he had a suspicion he’d used the Galran adverb and not the correct pronoun for the vague ‘ _ this _ ’ he had to settle for. It had been easier to just talk through his mind - language hadn’t seemed to be a barrier there. Either that, or Zarkon had sat down to learn English, something Shiro found highly unlikely. 

Still, despite how much he might be butchering the proper pronunciation, Shiro felt that he should at least have made himself understandable but no reply came.  _ I don’t like this. _

With a loud series of metallic  _ clangs _ , restraints snapped in place over his body, strapping him effectively against the slab and Shiro yelped in surprise. The sound quickly turned into a snarl when someone - a doctor, he presumed, or at least  _ hoped for _ \- stabbed a syringe into the side of his neck. For a moment, his veins burned as  _ whatever _ they had injected him with spread through his system, then it passed, taking his previous nausea and dizziness with it.

That left Shiro with only the pain from his arm and the aliens who refused to speak to him. Asking again yielded no new results, neither did biting out a sharp “ _ hey! _ ” - he was simply being  _ ignored _ . And when one of the doctors picked up what looked suspiciously much like a circular saw, Shiro grit his teeth. Next time he opened his mouth, it was to scream.


End file.
